The Attic

Cold fingers against your neck

And brushing against your thighs, leaving specks

Of blood from previous wrecks

That leave you crying because you know you're next

Shrunken lungs trying not to heave

Up words because you know they’ll leave

A bad impression; Yet the silence’ll weave

It’s way into the hearts on others’ sleeves

Fingernails are non-existent

The gnawing of teeth persistent

Bruised skin tear-resistant

And dry eyes that never relent

Screaming, clawing, dead and cold

The time ticks by and you grow old

Stories of what happened never once told

Raging fires within returning to scold

Secrets are not secrets

When met are not agreements

That leaves you to regrets

Of a tortured mind’s spirits

Lies, not yours, but his

Distorts for others what isn’t and what is

When until now they weren't concerned with this bis-ness

Forced to go back because they all forget

That what happened that night was met with sweat

Threats

A wet carpet

Stained with innocence of an upset brunette

Wishing only to reset

I’m a mess

In the attic

But not any attic;

It was his attic